Cold Front in February (Poem)


I profusely prayed for cold in mid-winter
the blossom of a kind of tree I knew all too well 
was unnatural in January
even in a Crockpot state like Texas.

While the mindless merrily praised what felt like April, when humid masses gusts from The Gulf to engulf the Lone Star's May flowers with spring showers, 
I remained sickly aware of the deceptively soaking sunshine's sinister tone.

The Maker purposefully meant for our Earth to periodically sleep,
not for the horsefly, the ant, the gecko, or the snake
to constantly buzz and creep.
For the green, the furry, and scaly to embrace dormancy--
to swear to slumber 
in elaborate ground tunnels and hollow lumber--

are they being empowered
to return more vibrant and to more awesomely tower than without,
for the sake of meeting His desired full potential.
Such a profound process
is a testament of His innovation, 
and, woefully, 
it's one man despises and/or ignores admitting 
he needs to continue his very existence.

Without the frigid frost, stinging sleet, and slippery snow
what would make us cling to each other for warmth?
Without the bitter cold, would make us remember
the sick, the homeless, and the lonely old?
What's a better motivator 
to truly take the time to savor 
steamy food and warm sheets,
than sheets of think ice covering concrete?  

So, the sight of a butterfly on a pollen search in February
made my heart sink me to my knees.  
While the masses praised an unnatural state 76 degrees 
and a pleasant southern breeze artificially forged by careless human activities,
I prayed for the process--
the process our children's children are depending on us to preserve--
to continue. 

To say "prayers were answered," when the arctic blast from Canada blitzed every creature to a name in February, 
would not do Him nor His perfectly planned cycle justice.
The 7 days straight below freezing, including 2 in the single digits that followed
did a better job acclaiming Him than any poem ever could.

His patience endures, even now, despite ungrateful moans and groans.    

The only kind of Crockpot
going in this baked state
this week
is the one brewing the family chili recipe,
to soon grace my plate.  

From the Soul,

Published works

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